On Being Free

Since moving to Boston, I feel as though I've been catapulted off a high diving board, left to feel all the customary sensations that follow. At first, I'm flying--if only for a moment--feeling the wind rush past my cheeks and the weightlessness as I rise higher. What comes next is always expected and yet, each time it feels at once wonderful and uncertain. As gravity gives in, my stomach turns. I've long enjoyed this feeling, and so I welcome it and attempt to avoid the anticipation of what will surely follow. Inevitably, I reach the water. Of course, I don't have to belly flop: I can cascade into its surface without so much as a splash. But I'm not a seasoned diver. In fact, I'm very much new to the trade, and while my start and execution might impress the judges, the finish is flat and uninspiring.

I'm not afraid to take risks in life, and I'm highly attuned to my wants and needs. Nevertheless, change isn't easy for most people, me included. I'm constantly struggling to find that right combination of behaviors and thoughts that might provide me some solace, relief, and freedom from the near-constant battle in my head. A friend once advised me to trust the process and know that, while positive change comes in fits and starts, its not always apparent. But that doesn't mean it's not there.

Right now, I'm climbing the ladder to reach that high rise once again. Only this time, I don't plan to return to my default dive. It's antiquated and the judges are tired of watching the same motions again and again. I want something new and fresh, not because I want to impress the judges, but because I want to finish with grace and confidence.

Right now, I'm sitting in a café near Harvard, drinking wonderful coffee and listening to John Coltrane--my favorite. The chill of fall is in the air (my first fall ever, really) and I'm excited to wear boots and scarves and nubby sweaters in the muted tones of the trees that surround me. And yet...I wonder how long this feeling will last. Maybe by characterizing it as fleeting, I'm presupposing a relapse. I'd like to believe that the progress will continue trending upward, but fear and uncertainty plague me and I question my own strength. Ultimately, it's a moot point: I've decided that this life is too precious, too devastating, and too wonderful not to take part--with every fiber of my being.

And so: 

“Autumn is a second spring when every leaf is a flower.” Albert Camus

xo